


Trouble in Paradise

by artemisgrace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confusion, Emotional Manipulation, I suppose, I'm extremely late to jump on this train, Implied Relationships, M/M, Manipulation, Mild Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Sexual Tension, Threats, Threats of Violence, for shits n giggles, it's a snog, like by most of a decade, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-09-05 23:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisgrace/pseuds/artemisgrace
Summary: (Set during the pool scene from way back when)Moriarty decides to mess with Sherlock's head a bit while he's got John in close physical proximity, 'cause it'll be funny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found myself rifling through some of the earliest Sherlock fics posted on AO3 in a fit of nostalgia, and next thing I knew, I had this idea. I have no other, better explanation.  
> Funny enough, this is my first Sherlock fic, more than half a decade after the initial interest.

The arms that seize him are tight to the point of bruising, but that’s hardly any matter; he can feel the desperation in them, but they’re despairing, even as the grab at him, restraining, as though that would do any real good . . .

Jim can’t help but laugh as the shout from over his shoulder echoes throughout the pool, contrasting with the gentle sounds of the calm water. Of course Sherlock doesn’t run, he’s never been able to tear himself away from the danger, from the seductive call of impending doom, of course he wouldn’t leave now, especially with his companion, pet, experiment, whatever he is, clutching tightly at Jim’s torso, creasing his suit. 

Johnny boy has shown his hand and Jim points out as much, relishing the little, sharp intake of breath beside his ear as a red laser sight hovers upon the pale skin of Sherlock’s forehead. He’s expecting the sudden release of those confining arms; showing the adversary the inevitability of their defeat should they resist does typically result in surrender, but he’s pleasantly surprised by a sudden constriction of the limbs surrounding him, moving from bruising to suffocating.

He hadn’t paid much attention to John Watson, viewing him as not too dissimilar to a handbag or some other accessory to Sherlock’s outfit, at least until recently, when it occurred to him how wonderful the fellow would look wrapped up in explosives, and how wonderful the expression of shock would look on Sherlock’s face. And oh, it had been satisfying, that split second where the man was forced to doubt the one person he’d so unthinkingly given his trust, that split second where anyone watching could see his heart dropping like a stone to the pit of his stomach, pale eyes widening with an as-yet unknown fear. The fear of the unknown is always the worst. And it’s tremendously effective.

He wheezes, ribs spasming beneath crushing arms, and he’s enjoying the novelty of it, enough to forgo having the both of them shot where they stand. No one ever touches him, no one ever gets close enough to try, and he personally doesn’t prefer to get his hands dirty, so physical contact at all is an oddity, and all the more so when he can feel how much the grip wants him dead.

Novelty.

“You’re not winning this one,” he huffs out against the tightness of his chest, “so why the show of force, eh, Johnny boy?”

“Why not?” comes the gritted out reply an a harsh exhale, and Jim becomes suddenly much more conscious of both the sharpness and the proximity of the man’s teeth, “If we’re screwed either way.”

“Fatalistic? Is that what you’re going with then?”

“I’ll rip your damn throat out,” the man hisses through those teeth, oh so close, and it’s not only got anger behind it, but conviction, as if perhaps he’s done it before, and the thought provokes a shiver of unexpected intrigue.

Jim flicks his eyes up to take in Sherlock’s face, knowing that he should be able to just about half make out their conversation, but over the sloshing of water and the frantic pulsing of blood through his veins, the man is unlikely to make out every word. The situation is ripe for misunderstanding, and Jim has always loved a taste of the dramatic, the more fraught the better. He’s never shied from poking the beast.

Forget the last stand, boys, get ready for trouble in paradise. No harm in stretching this out a little.

“I knew you were cold-blooded, but that’s next level,” Jim croons with genuine appreciation, he’s always found ruthlessness to be a good look on a person, “Your looks are deceiving, Johnny.”

He feels the hot breath of righteous destruction on his neck and lets the shiver manifest physically, shifting in the bruising hold, and the way Sherlock’s flick back and forth between himself and John Watson in confusion makes Jim unable to resist smiling. It’s just too satisfying, the widening of the eyes as the grip tightens, enough that he can feel his ribs fairly creaking under the pressure. He could signal for a sudden and bloody end to this, but as yet it’s simply too amusing. Johnny boy doesn’t know that though, how much Jim’s enjoying this, at least, not yet.

“My snipers could just shoot you in the head, you know,” he mentions casually, tossing the phrase back over his shoulder with a familiarity that makes Sherlock’s shoulders stiffen, if only for a moment, “The vest is a frill that I admit I love, and I’m reluctant to see it go unused, but a bullet to your brain will do much the same job.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” the words are almost whispered into his ear, the mouth forming them at the perfect height to do so and the voice hard, unwavering, “but will they do it before I sever your carotid with my teeth?”

The shiver is real, a genuine response, but no one has ever been able to accuse Jim Moriarty of not being a dramatic actor, and with Sherlock looking on, so adorably lost for all his cleverness, Jim can’t not play this up.

“Fuck, tell me that’s a promise, Johnny,” he sighs, loudly enough that this phrase at the least will be heard entirely clearly, suddenly jerking a hand free of the hold only slide it up Watson’s neck and grasp painfully at his short hair.

Sherlock gasps, not audibly, Johnny won’t have noticed, but it’s pronounced enough that Jim can see the sudden rise and fall of his chest, and that doubt flickers behind his eyes again; he can see Sherlock simultaneously doubting and hating himself for doing so. Oh, it’s infinitely satisfying, the way the playing field shifts, almost toppling the great Sherlock Holmes.

“Fuck you,” Watson spits out, obviously also taken aback by this development, enough to be at a loss for words, but not enough to shake his stance or loosen his grip.

“Yes, but not here, love, I’m shy,” Watson’s curse was loud enough for Sherlock to hear, making it the perfect set up to Jim's own response as he arches slightly against the form behind him.

He can feel the clenching of muscles and the gritting of teeth, and he knows that in any other situation, John Watson would be flinging Jim away from him in confused disgust before riddling him with holes, but this is still a standoff and he still can’t, and hell, if that frustration doesn’t make this all the better . . .

The doubt behind Sherlock’s eyes isn’t just a flicker anymore; even as he rebels against it, it’s taken hold, and at this moment he has to be wondering what else has gone on between John Watson and Jim Moriarty, what else may be at play here that Sherlock hasn’t foreseen, hasn’t recognized. What was said that he didn’t hear? What happened that he didn’t see? It’s not only the doubt of a friend, it’s also self-doubt, and it’s fantastic.

Then Jim’s phone rings. A new development, a new element has arrived.

“Oh,” he sighs as if in disappointment, “but I’m afraid something has just come up. We’ll have to do it next time, babe.”

He slides his hand away from Johnny boy’s face as if giving a caress before reaching for his hidden knife, which he’s slightly disappointed neither of them had noticed, but then, he supposes, they were a bit preoccupied. He strikes quickly and within a moment it’s sticking out of John’s leg like the thorn of some massive deadly rose; the arms around him tighten briefly in shock, but they release as the pain sweeps in on a wave, impossible to just ignore, and John Watson, sinks to the ground. It won’t kill the man, at least not anytime soon, but he is going to want to get it seen to once Moriarty has left.

The instant distress on Sherlock’s face, glimpsed from the corner of an eye, is an inspiration, and Jim impulsively grabs John Watson’s hair once more, jerking his head up to face him before going in for what is quite possibly the most filthy, disgusting snog he’s ever been a part of. It’s all tongue and teeth and far too wet to be truly pleasant for anyone, but it sends a clear message, better than a basic kidnapping alone could.

I can touch your things. 

I can do whatever I like.

You are not in control.

You never have been.

He takes advantage of the moment of shock to run off, leaving one man stunned and the other bleeding sluggishly around Moriarty’s blade, letting the laughter that’s been bubbling up inside his chest escape, echoing around the pool along with the sound of the slamming door as he properly takes his leave. He knows suspicion and doubt and blame will begin to roil in his wake, and when he finally answers his phone, his voice is bright, a testament to a positively marvelous mood.

Perhaps now, with the two of them left alive and in turmoil, if he’s patient, he’ll one day get to see John Watson bite someone’s throat out.

Won’t that be exciting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's perspective of the rest of the night and the next morning.  
> The frankly not unexpected emotional constipation begins to come into play, though John's not really in much of a position to recognize it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now a multi-chapter fic, at the readers' request. Thanks for your feedback, folks!

It was an unnatural silence that followed them from the moment of Moriarty’s departure and the disappearance of those dreaded red dots of laser sights mere seconds later; it clung to them even through the arrival of Lestrade and his team, and of the ambulance called to see to John’s leg, from which a knife had still protruded when the cavalry came. It clung like a parasite, like a tick, or some other clingy, unwanted thing.

Imaginative phrasing escaped John as the medics saw to his leg, restraining himself from commenting on their work or demanding to take it over himself more out of exhaustion than anything, certainly more than politeness, as politeness felt rather superfluous so shortly after being stabbed. He’d have an interesting new scar to add to his already frankly impressive collection, no doubt, and no doubt Moriarty knew it too and would relish the knowledge . . . Moriarty, that was a train of thought that could bloody well wait until John got himself a decent meal and a good night’s sleep. The bastard wanted to be on his mind and John was disinclined to give the fucker the satisfaction.

He still couldn’t help wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve though, even as he pushed all thoughts of consulting criminals aside, and he felt the cold grey eyes of a certain consulting detective following the motion, still mired in that odd silence.

Not that silence was at all unfamiliar to either of them. Sherlock had been quite serious and quite honest when he’d told John that he sometimes didn’t speak for days on end, and with all the time they’ve spent together now, the silent spells had become almost routine, much as the outbursts and associated nonsense had become rather routine. Even before Sherlock and his long periods of laconism, John had gotten to know silence very well, sitting alone in his cheap digs largely bare of furniture, nothing particular to get out of bed for, and no one much that he cared to speak to. Just a gun in a drawer that he did his damnedest not to think so much about. 

Needless to say, he frequently failed.

But then he’d met Sherlock and the meaning of silence shifted to something less menacing. Silence became domestic and relatively harmless; it became drinking tea and reading the newspaper in the quiet of their shared sitting room, no longer the sound of a gun he’s not supposed to have sitting ominously in a desk drawer while he tries desperately to forget about it.

The point was that silence had stopped bothering John, for quite some time now, but the way that Sherlock stared at him without speaking in the back of the ambulance, as John gritted his teeth against the medics cutting open his trouser leg to clean and stitch the wound, it left him unusually unsettled. No doubt Sherlock was rather in shock over the events of the evening too, even if he’d never in a million years admit it, but the fact that he’ll never admit it means it’ll just be that much harder to get him over it. 

And there John was, fretting over Sherlock, who hadn’t a scratch on him, while he himself had a brand new knife wound . . .

Lestrade too appeared to recognize the odd silence that developed and hung heavy like dank clouds around the two of them, for after ensuring that John’s leg had gotten medical attention, the man hadn’t even brought up the subject of giving their official statements, for once entirely content to let that go without even establishing a future date to come in to Scotland Yard. Instead, the man seemed to fairly flee under Sherlock’s stony gaze, appearing to take personal discomfort as well from John’s injury, as though battling some guilt on his own part. He needn’t have; John could think of a decent list of people who held some amount of responsibility for his wounded state, and Lestrade, while not completely off the list, certainly wasn’t anywhere near the top. 

When he felt better, John knew, he’d give Sherlock a right earful about running off by himself, about playing games with fucking murderers like Moriarty, for not fucking thinking things through despite all his genius . . . but these were things for future John to worry about, in the meantime taking a plastic cup and some proffered pain medication from a medic and chucking them down his throat with little ceremony. He’d refused a hospital stay once the medic admitted that he was no longer in any actual danger from his injury, because as difficult as Sherlock could be, he’d likely be twice as bad if forced to accompany John to a boring, sterile hospital ward.

“Alright,” he’d sighed, addressing Sherlock as he heaved himself to his feet with a wince, “Let’s be off home. I’ve got maybe half an hour before I’m fully off my head on pain meds, and I’d rather I be in my own bed when that happens.”

Sherlock had given a grunt of something like assent and John took it as good enough, hobbling off in search of a cab, which he would most definitely be making Sherlock pay for. They got home somehow, though John had evidently been well under the influence of medication by the time they arrived, given how little he remembers of it the next day when he wakes.

He wakes, quite frankly, feeling as though a gerbil has been living inside his skull, an oddly specific feeling which is difficult for him to describe in any other words, but if he has to be general, the word ‘uncomfortable’ will surely do. He feels a bit like he’s stuffed with cotton wool as the heaves himself awkwardly out of bed and wobbles his way towards the window for about two steps, before very suddenly being given an extremely pointed reminder of the fact that he’d had a knife sticking out of his leg last night, but a few hours ago.

As is really bloody typical, Sherlock appears to become aware that something’s amiss before John even hits the floor, which he does, with no insubstantial amount of wincing and grimacing against the shock of pain that spikes through him.

“John?” comes Sherlock’s voice, carrying up the stairs, and drugged though he still appears to be, John suddenly realizes that he’s actually quite angry at the owner of that voice. 

He replies, or tries to, because what really emerges from his throat is something more like a strangled croak than what he intended to say, which had been something along the lines of “piss off.” Or, alternatively, “I’m fine,” as both are floating at the forefront of his mind, but John’s not sure which of the two would have actually come out had he been able to construct a comprehensible sentence.

In response to his failed attempt at speech, he hears the sound of footsteps on the stairs; Sherlock making his way to John’s room to ensure that his flatmate hasn’t in fact died, which would no doubt be extremely inconvenient. 

“John?” comes the call again, slightly softer but no less insistent, from just the other side of John’s bedroom door.

John doesn’t even bother trying to form something understandable to communicate his continued consciousness, settle for a rather pathetic groan that he feels throughout his entire body. It’s his leg that was hurt, and yet his entire body seems to have taken the issue personally, the unpleasant sensation not limiting itself to only the one body part. Rather ambitious of it, really.

The door opens, and if John didn’t know better, he would say it opened almost cautiously, revealing a dressing gown-clad Sherlock, looking none the worse for wear after what had likely been another sleepless night. Once he spots John where he rests sprawled almost drunkenly on the floor, the door swings open and Sherlock enters the room in his usual imperious manner, something which John has begin to suspect that Sherlock isn’t even aware that he does. Like flipping up his collar.

Once he’s in the room, he sighs in his put-upon way, which John has to admit he’s definitely had a hand in creating, being a frequent user of that sort of sigh himself, most often directed at Sherlock. The man was bound to pick it up and turn it back around on John; such is his way.

He walks over to John, but there’s a moment of something almost like hesitation, a fraction of a second during which his hands hover over John without actually touching before he seizes him and hauls him bodily upright. Sherlock’s never been the type to hover-hand, John thinks hazily, he’s not shy about physical contact, or even nudity, which John realizes is somewhat in play since he’s wearing only his pants. But Sherlock’s never been shy about pretty much anything, and if he’s not inclined towards engaging in physical contact in a context in which it’s expected of him, he gives little care, stating his aversion in no uncertain terms. 

And yet here he is, hesitating to touch John’s skin, despite the very real necessity of it in this particular situation. 

But maybe John’s still just a little bit high, he considers as he’s flopped unceremoniously back into bed and tucked in, largely without skill, but thoroughly, betraying Sherlock’s hidden capacity for care. The tucking in isn’t strictly necessary, but it’s what John always does for Sherlock when the foolish man manages to get off his head on something or another, whether intentionally or not, and Sherlock’s evidently picked that up too. It’s not just Sherlock who’s changed John’s life on so many levels, both large and small; John’s managed to leave his own mark, and the thought of that is strangely satisfying.

Maybe he's a lot bit high.

John now firmly deposited back in the safety of his bed, he watches through increasingly bleary eyes as sleep creeps back up on him, observing Sherlock as he turns to leave John alone once more, not looking back as he opens the door, steps through, and lets it swing shut again behind him. John closes his eyes, expecting to hear the sound of footsteps upon stairs once again, this time in retreat, but the sound doesn’t come, stopping with the creak of floorboards in the hall. 

‘Is he just going to stand out there all day?’ John thinks briefly, hazily, before the medicated sleep swallows him up, leaving him to a mercifully dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The different chapters will be from different perspectives, illuminating, with time, the feelings that have long laid buried.  
> wink wonk


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's got some feelings about what's happened, and that very fact has him bloody irritated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sherlock is significantly harder for me to write than John, so do forgive me if this feels a bit off at all . . .
> 
> Oh, and if you want to keep up with me and keep an eye on the status of new chapters and the like, you can check out my twitter: https://twitter.com/artemisgraceart

Sherlock doesn’t stand out there all day, in fact. 

After about two minutes, by which time John has surely slipped back into an artificial unconsciousness, Sherlock leans into the wall and lets himself slide down it until he sits on the floor of the hallway, the bare floorboards hard underneath him while the chill seeps insidiously and insistently through the meager protection of his dressing gown. He’s aware of his own discomfort, though at the moment he’s disinclined to do anything about it, choosing instead to ignore the pointless grumbling of his physical shell. He’s got other things to brood over, and physical discomfort is neither unfamiliar nor interesting in the slightest.

John would undoubtedly tell him that he’s experiencing some form of shock, but of course that is ridiculous; shock is something that happens to other people, people with less control. Because Sherlock is in control, of course he is, he always has been, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.

He is, isn’t he? Of course he is, the alternative is simply unthinkable, a thought that is not to be entertained.

Moriarty’s whole intention is to make him doubt himself, and apart from anything else, Sherlock’s pride won’t allow him to fall prey to such a feeble and transparent tactic, so why should his flesh itch and crawl beneath the skin the way it does? It shouldn’t, so he swallows the feeling down like so much unsweetened tea and dry toast, convincing himself that it’s equally as unimportant, but all that does is create a roiling weight in his stomach, discouraging him from doing much besides half-lying, half-sitting in the hallway, limbs heavier than they have any right to be.

He looks down at said limbs, dragging his fingernails across the grain of the wood flooring in quiet contemplation, listening to the soft scraping sound it makes. His head is so damnably full of swirling thoughts that it might as well be empty for how much actual, useful concentration he’s been able to summon up. Every closing of his eyes takes him right back to the poolside, to the smell of chlorine and adrenaline-induced sweat, to the shuddering of his heart as John had walked out of the shadow, his face thrown into stark relief by the sickly blue-green fluorescent lighting, his form padded out not with fluffy jumpers, but with explosives. Speaking in a voice not his own, in someone else’s voice . . . Moriarty’s voice . . .

And the man in question hadn’t been able to resist appearing himself in the flesh of course, much in the way that Sherlock hadn’t been able to resist attending in person, the risk of it altogether too tempting, a siren song . . . A song that ended the moment John came into his sight.

Yes, that’s what’s upset him, that’s it. John’s appearance had been unforeseen, Sherlock hadn’t anticipated him being taken by Moriarty before their . . . appointment, hadn’t expected his flatmate to be thrown in as an extra element, as leverage, although perhaps, in hindsight, that had been an error in reasoning on his part. There’s nothing worse than an element of surprise being thrown into a carefully choreographed exchange; it’s unsettling, irritating.

He should have realized that John’s significance as his flatmate, singular friend, and right hand man would make him appear significant in Moriarty’s eyes as well despite his inherent, well, boring normality, if only for the man’s relation to Sherlock. Though perhaps, a surprisingly loud and petulant part of his mind muttered darkly, perhaps that isn’t John’s only significance to the game, to Moriarty, now; the consultant criminal had seemed awfully enamored last night as he’d stroked John’s face . . . And there it was, the sickening twist of his gut, the unconscious scowl that clawed its way onto Sherlock’s features without his permission, though here, on the floor of the hall with no audience to speak of, he couldn’t be bothered to wipe the dreaded thing away. But perhaps a bit of scowling was in order, given the circumstances, if only for the therapeutic value.

John would say so. And John would also point out that Sherlock is appearing significantly more upset over the interaction between his flatmate and his enemy than is likely warranted or useful, particularly considering that they’d come uncomfortably close to being blown into little more than bone shrapnel and a gory spray. And Sherlock would tell him, though in somewhat more sophisticated terms, to sod off. 

There’s nothing worse than arguing with someone who has a valid point.

It wasn’t just the surprise of it, it was the ongoing lack of certainty, lack of knowledge. What happened that Sherlock wasn’t present to be witness to? While he was on his way to their sinister rendez-vous and while Moriarty, apparently, had been strapping John into an explosive vest, Sherlock had been walking along in inexcusable, infuriating ignorance of the affair. What didn’t he see, while he’d been strolling so confidently along, what didn’t he hear?

Even once he’d arrived and the stand off had begun, the sound of water echoing off ceramic tile and concrete had been just loud enough that Moriarty’s personal exchange with John had been muffled, and lip-reading hadn’t been much help with Moriarty turned away from him like that, too intent on whatever the doctor had to say to face Sherlock head on. That too was no-doubt intentional, just another piece in the elaborate puzzle designed to muddle Sherlock’s crystal clear thinking, but knowing that the actions had been intentional, oddly enough, did little to minimize their effect. Particularly when Sherlock could see plainly enough the physical evidence that, trick though it may have been, it wasn’t founded on nothing, no, the thrilled shivering and the rise of goosebumps had been at least somewhat genuine. 

It disgusts Sherlock on a more visceral level than he honestly would have predicted from himself, the feeling more deeply rooted than any disapproval for the tastelessness of Moriarty’s act, or mere concern for a central figure in Sherlock’s daily life, to whom he’d become quite accustomed, in the grip of danger . . . deeper even than a rush of possession over the sight of a friend, his friend, in the clutches of another. 

These thoughts are all, of course, unnecessary and foolish and entirely beneath him, but all the same, it’s getting to the point where not even he can entirely deny their existence, or indeed the way they’re affecting his mood. He’s aware, logically, of what his priorities are, or what they should be, but at this particular moment, he’s not abiding by them, and failing to summon up the energy to care. And that simply serves to complicate matters all the more.

He doesn’t want to . . . to touch John, and while he can easily identify from where and when the feeling sprang forth to take root inside his skull like some useless bloody weed, he’s at a loss to properly explain it, certainly to justify it. 

He imagines Moriarty, in preparation for Sherlock’s arrival, pushing John around at the business end of some deadly weapon or another, forcing him into that horrid vest, strapping him in . . . hands wandering more than is strictly appropriate for any self-respecting professional criminal . . . and the positively vile swapping of saliva that the man had subjected John to, an action Sherlock had actually been there to witness, making his stomach genuinely turn in revulsion . . . Sherlock has no reason to feel so strongly about it, not when John, who’d actually experienced it, had hardly appeared concerned by it in the slightest, the knife no doubt of greater consequence in the moment, much as it should be. But John’s been injured before, worse than this, and he’s always healed perfectly well . . . it’s just the rest that’s never happened before, and with no previous evidence collected, upon which Sherlock would be able to reflect and form predictions, he’s facing an unsettling uncertainty. 

He understands why; his feelings are, most would say, understandable, they’re just not logical, not clear and dispassionate, and that chafes like mad, leaving Sherlock feeling positively skinned. He has no purely logical reason, and yet his stomach had turned all the same at the sight; it turns even now as he merely reflects upon the event.

And there's no denying that, even after eliminating the ideas of "fault" and "responsibility," these events were still directly caused by actions that Sherlock had chosen to undertake.

He's hesitant to touch John, a concern he's never entertained before, and if he had to boil his frankly overly-emotional and illogical facsimile of ‘reasoning’ down for a simpler audience he’d say . . . John has put up with enough of being physically manipulated by others in the past twenty-four hours, and Sherlock feels actively averse to the idea of adding to it. John’s had his autonomy interfered with enough lately, and it feels like touching him now, particularly outside of any general nursing capacity, would be . . . not good. It feels like it’d be wrong, yet another improper imposition upon John Watson’s time and physical form.

Hah. “Feels” wrong. Feelings are foolish, they distract and divert from more important, more useful things. Feelings alone don’t solve anything, they simply get in the way of reasonable, realistic solutions. All this Sherlock knows, and yet here he is, fretting over wanting to stroke John’s hair back from his forehead in the midst of the man’s pained, restless sleep. Here he is, standing -or more precisely, sitting- sentinel at the door of John’s bedroom, guarding him against everything, and nothing in particular.

Whatever is he to do about that?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up again and encounters Sherlock sitting watch in the hallway outside his room . . . it is at this point that a certain level of awkwardness arises . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took such a long time, but I've had quite a bit going on: health problems and the accompanying mental breakdown, moving from France back to the USA, finishing up my final quarter of school, and graduating with my degree from uni. So, yeah . . . a lot going on . . .
> 
> For now, I'm back home resting up in between doctor's visits, and I intend to spend my awake time writing and drawing to be somewhat productive while I'm without employment.

When John awakes again, his first thought is that, with relative surety, this is quite probably what gargling with cotton wool feels like, so parched is his mouth.

At least this time when he awakes his mind is clear enough to remember the fact that sudden movements, particularly of his leg, will hurt like an absolute bitch, and he thus takes his sweet time coming fully into consciousness, letting his eyes get used to fluttering about before any attempts to open his eyelids. Upon opening them, he takes a moment to observe a crack on the ceiling that he hadn’t paid much attention to before, letting the sight divert him from the pain that grows with each moment of wakefulness. He recognizes however, that is he doesn’t want it to become truly awful, he’d best get moving, at least enough to get his medication and a glass of something to wash it down with.

With a muffled groan, he pulls himself upright into a sitting position and observes the room. It’s much as he remembers leaving it, despite the vague memory in his mind of flopping about the place in a drugged stupor and being carried back to bed. Ah yes, Sherlock … John’s still angry, and his anger doesn’t exactly diminish as he looks to his bedside table and sees an empty glass, no water nor cup of tea left for him by the flatmate he spends most of his time looking after. 

A part of him remarks that he really ought not to be disappointed by the lack of water or tea, because Sherlock coming to his rescue and tucking him tightly back into bed, of his own volition, no less, is a marvel in its own right. Disappointment implies that he’s harbored expectations to begin with. That calmer, more sensible part of him, however, is dwarfed by the bit that’s in pain, deeply inconvenienced, and incredibly thirsty. 

Turning carefully and swinging his legs off the side of the bed to let his feet rest gingerly against the floor, John congratulates his past self on the foresight he’d had to leave his cane within reach from his bed, despite the fact that he uses it so rarely these days. Taking it in hand, he uses it to heave himself up into a standing position, clenching his teeth at the agonizing tightness in his leg and cursing a variety of people and things: Sherlock, Sally, Lestrade, Anderson, his own leg, the very concept of knives … But not Moriarty, not right now. He’s not ready to think about that yet, and cursing Moriarty would involve far too much thinking about him for John’s comfort. 

He finds his jacket slung over a chair, probably where he left it, as he highly doubts that Sherlock would’ve bothered to put it there had he found it anywhere else. In his pocket, he finds the bottle of pain medication that he was given, and while loathe to give up his newfound clarity, he recognizes that it would be best, at least for this first day, to remain in the painless stupor of medicinal fog the pills provide. Even if that means walking downstairs on his injured leg to get some water . . . or perhaps more likely, scooting down the stairs on his arse to get something to drink. 

If John must choose between sacrificing his dignity or being in pain, dignity can very well go hang. Just so long as Sherlock doesn’t see him do it . . . he’d never hear the end of it then, and neither, he suspects, would Lestrade and his team, or anyone else they know.

Pulling on a jumper and taking both the bottle of medication and cane in hand, John hobbles his way to his bedroom door with a grimace, jaw tight with a pain he’s doing his damndest to ignore, his steps more awkward than they’ve been since he and Sherlock first met. The handle turns easily in his grip however, and he takes a moment to be thankful that at least his hands are still fully operational as the door swings open into the hallway with a gentle creaking.

It’s quiet in the flat, unusually so, and the silence can only suggest that Sherlock has worn himself out and collapsed somewhere into a well-needed sleep by now, and John winces at the thought of what Sherlock might have been doing to wear himself out while he’s been entirely without John’s supervision. Still, he’s not exactly inclined to disrupt this temporary and quite rare peace, so he treads carefully upon leaving the room, avoiding the one particularly squeaky board as much as possible as he turns to close the door behind him.

It’s at that moment that John Watson very nearly jumps out of his skin, as the closing of the door reveals the unconscious Sherlock’s location, slumped against the wall, legs stretched out into the hallway outside John’s bedroom, and very still. Once recovered from the shock, the stillness gives John pause, and clutching his cane, he does his best to crouch down next to his friend, where he confirms that yes, Sherlock is alive and that his sleep appears to be a natural one, not induced by anything besides honest exhaustion. Mercifully.

Were it an induced sleep, the location would be more understandable, but as it is, it’s quite odd. To the outsider, it might seem like it would be normal, at least Sherlock’s brand of normal, to fall asleep in odd places, and while this is in a way true, Sherlock is also a creature of habit, at least inside his own flat. The places in which he’s known to nap may sometimes be odd, but they are at least predictable: sofa, armchair, the floor in front of the armchair, a few times on top of the coffee table, when the sofa and armchair were otherwise occupied with stacks of books, lab equipment, and other odds and ends. The hall outside John’s bedroom was entirely new, and for that reason both perplexing and slightly worrying. What the hell was he doing there? He can’t have chosen it for the sake of comfort . . .

The way he’s sleeping too, upright, facing the hall and the stairs, almost like . . . he’s keeping watch. He is, or was, that must be what he was doing . . . And for once, John feels that he may be at an advantage in discerning the truth of the situation. Sherlock is brilliant, of course he is, but he’s also brilliantly stubborn, particularly in denial of that which he’d rather weren’t real, and that blinds him to a number of things. John, being less brilliant, particularly in denial, has a certain clarity of sight, which at times has him thankful to be of a more ordinary, less impressive stock. 

Sherlock doesn’t often apologize, certainly not in so many words, but he has been known, upon occasion, to be apologetic. This he shows in actions, and though many of them are also known to go unintentionally astray, the good intent behind them is discernible for those inclined to see it, John among them. A mess abruptly disappearing, a cuppa abruptly appearing, these things replace outright statements the majority of the time, and the action taken tends to be representative of the size of the preceding cock-up. It may appear to be too little, too infrequent, and often too late to those outside of 221B, but John has always been the flexible sort, so an unconventional system of emotional communication became familiar fairly quickly. 

It may still disappoint him at times, but at least he understands it. 

He understands that while Sherlock has not, and might never say so, he is sorry for the danger to John incurred by his own actions. It’s a greater danger than he’s ever brought upon them before, and as such, the appropriate apologetic action must be elusive, with no past data to draw upon . . . Perhaps that is why he sits watch now in the hall outside John’s bedroom . . . 

Besides, on a less sentimental note, Sherlock has a possessive streak which includes all things central to his daily life, his friends and friendlier acquaintances notwithstanding. Change and excitement are welcome of course, but only so long as Sherlock feels a measure of control over them. It is a selfish kind of care, but not all that different from everyone else, not really. More honest, perhaps, in its own way, but not that different.

And possessiveness is a more comfortable thing to feel than the vulnerability that accompanies simple, sincere affection.

So he falls asleep on a hard wooden floor, without blankets or pillows, sitting upright outside the room in which his injured friend lies unconscious, and he does so silently, lest he betray his own fears. John wouldn’t fault him for having fears, but it’s not about what John thinks, not really; it’s about the fragility of a persona, of self-perception and presentation constructed as a defense. 

The question is whether to wake him and admit to having seen him vulnerable, or to walk carefully past, retrieve his water, and admit nothing . . . but while John’s still angry, and will be for a while yet, he acknowledges that Sherlock hasn’t exactly had an easy time of it either, and adding to it would be frankly counterproductive and more trouble than it’s worth. He’ll still get a verbal thrashing, but not until he’s had a decent rest and something resembling actual food to eat.

That decision made, John uses the cane to lever himself back up to a standing position and proceeds to the stairs, making his way carefully and painfully down the steps to the sitting room and through to the kitchen, where he seeks out a reasonably clean mug to fill with water. It’s as he’s taking his medication and washing it down with a drink that he hears a creak from the stairs and the soft sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen.

Turning around reveals to him an exhausted-looking Sherlock, swaying slightly on his feet by the dining table, hair a mess from a thorough ruffling and his dressing gown a fright of wrinkles. 

“Sherlock?” John inquires over the rim on his cup, casting a deliberately blank look over to his flatmate.

“John,” the man answers, with a tone that’s a bit hard for John to immediately identify, “You weren’t in bed.”

“Needed something to drink,” John looks pointedly down to the cup in his hands.

“Obviously. I can see that quite clearly.”

“Right . . . okay,” John quickly refills the cup and begins to leave the kitchen, squeezing past Sherlock’s looming figure on the way out with the full intent of going back to bed and remaining there peacefully for as long as he can stand to.

He gets a few steps before he finds himself once again interrupted.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“I . . . I regret the way that events transpired,” Sherlock says quietly, eyes flickering to and away from John’s face.

“Good,” John shoots back, “Because that was a genuinely fantastic cock-up, Sherlock, and the mistakes made weren’t mine.”

“John, I . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I find myself at an unfortunate loss as to what to say.”

“Say nothing then,” John tells him, feeling less charitable after the painful trip down the stairs than he had felt at the top of them, as the strain becomes all the harder to ignore with the passing minutes on his feet, “But if you feel like being at all helpful, you could help me up the stairs. I’m not sure that I can get up there by myself while holding this cup.”

“You can’t,” Sherlock announces with an irritating amount of surety.

“Then get over here and help!” John snaps.

Sherlock darts forward at the words, but just before he reaches John, his movement slows, hesitant, indicating that John’s perception of Sherlock helping him up from the floor earlier might not have been as far off as he’d assumed. The reason for it, however, remains unclear as Sherlock hovers just outside the realm of effectiveness, standing a foot too far from John to do him any actual good. 

“Well?” John prompts, sticking out an elbow so that Sherlock might support it.

Sherlock shoots him a light glare that feels much more like business as usual than anything has since the “game” with Moriarty began, but to his credit, he does step forward to take John’s arm and begin to lead him to the stairs. The matter of getting up them presents some difficulty and requires a change of position to John with an arm slung about Sherlock’s shoulders, hanging off of the man’s frame with a less-than-optimal level of grace, all the while struggling to keep his mug of water from spilling. Both endeavors are ultimately successful, but not without a close call or two- much as many of their shared endeavors go, really.

It doesn’t escape John though, the way that Sherlock flinches slightly at each stifled grunt of pain that escapes John’s throat . . . If he didn’t know better, he’d say that someone is feeling just a touch guilty . . .

Tumbling into the room isn’t exactly elegant either, nor is Sherlock slinging John back into bed, but it’s the moment that immediately follows which is truly awkward. John flopped safely into bed, Sherlock stands at the foot of it, seemingly unsure of what he’s meant to be doing next. After a few moments have passed, John feels compelled to address this fact.

“Sherlock? Do you need something?”

“I’m perfectly capable of attaining anything of which I have need,” the man in question responds, as if on some sort of petty auto-pilot before his tone softens, “I was wondering if you did.”

“If I needed anything?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Well, someone’s feeling generous today,” John remarks drily, eyebrows raised.

“It’s not generosity,” Sherlock protests, ever the one to reject the accusation of exhibiting a virtue, “It’s . . . concern.”

“You’re concerned about me?”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, you absolutely should after the bloody mess you got me into,” John confirms, a bit of the anger he’s still harboring slipping into his voice, “but I’m frankly surprised at you admitting it.”

Sherlock merely scoffs, the clearest sign of him being at a loss for words, but it is the wounded look that flickers in his eye that encourages John to take pity on him.

“Thank you, no,” John tells him, feeling the effects of the medicine he’d taken begin to set back in in force, “I think the main thing I need is to be unconscious for a good, long while, and perhaps a hand in changing the dressings whenever it is that I wake up.”

“Right then,” Sherlock responds shortly, going to the door, opening it, and passing into the hallway with a light creaking of boards.

John listens for a moment once the door has closed, waiting for more creaking to indicate Sherlock’s retreat, and at the very noticeable lack of sound, John sighs.

“If you’re just going to hover outside the door like a bloody spectre, you might as well stay in the room.”

There’s a pause before the door swings back open and Sherlock’s face appears, peeking in from around the doorframe.

“You’re sure?”

It’s not like him to ask questions that redundant, or to which the answers are so evident . . .

“Just get in here before I change my mind and throw you out,” John tells him sharply.

“I doubt you’d be able to throw me out in your current condition,” Sherlock notes with a gesture towards John as if to highlight the fluttering of the man’s eyelids and the nodding of his head as artificial sleep creeps upon him once more, “I doubt you could so much as walk without my assistance right now.”

“That’s exactly the sort of comment that’ll get you thrown out,” John retorts, “now, there’s the chair, I’m sure that you know what to do with it, or if you’re still tired, you can take the other side of the bed. I’ll be too asleep for you to disturb me.”

“I don’t get tired,” Sherlock insists, more out of habit than anything else, John suspects.

“Oh yes,” John sighs, mumbling as he settles back into the pillows and pulls the blanket up to cover himself, “How could I have forgotten that you alone in the world are impervious to exhaustion, my goodness, what an idiot I am . . .”

“That’s not what I said,” Sherlock pouts, arms crossed obstinately, though the purpose of such a motion is lost on the rapidly-fading John.

“What you say, what you imply, and what you mean rarely match up, Sherlock,” John grumbles, shifting about to find a comfortable position in which to spend the next few hours in drugged slumber, “Now, whatever you’re going to do, just do it, and kindly shut up.”

Mercifully, Sherlock actually does remain silent, and as John’s eyes flutter shut, he sees the man striding over to the chair, pulling it out, and plopping himself down into the seat with a quiet huff. He’s sitting in it backwards because of course he is; god forbid he sit like an average person, but John knows that this show of unnecessary rebellion won’t last long once he’s fallen asleep, at which point discomfort will likely win out over obstinance. 

What John doesn’t see as he drifts off, is the way that Sherlock watches him in his sleep, brows furrowed, mouth drawn into a serious line. It’s a look John has certainly seen before, though this time in a context unlike previous occasions: a look that tells of deep contemplation, of questions teetering on the razor’s edge of an answer.

Whatever answer it is he’s searching for, he’ll have a few hours at least to find it . . . Shouldn’t be too difficult for Sherlock Holmes, should it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of an epiphany with this fic, so I think I know where this thing is going to go. You know how John feels a bit betrayed right now because of Sherlock's actions before the pool? Well, he won't be the only one feeling that way before the end of this. Oh yeah, and Moriarty won't be able to stay away from the drama for long . . .
> 
> Well, you know what's up in my life, so what about you? Thoughts on the fic? Are you doing well? 
> 
> Let me know! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'll make this a multi-chapter thing if y'all are interested in that, so uh, let me know.


End file.
